


With Gentle Words, Enthralling Me to Thee

by OzQueen



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Cunnilingus, Cunnilingus as Reward, F/M, Language Kink, Orgasm Control, Under-Desk Cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 04:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: "Turn to the next page, heart's dearest, and continue."





	With Gentle Words, Enthralling Me to Thee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/gifts).



* * *

 

"Turn to the next page, heart's dearest, and continue." Friedrich's voice is low from beneath her skirts, and Jo waits a moment, breathless with anticipation, his mouth lingering against her knee, his breath warm through her stocking.

She blinks down at the worn book lying open on the desk in front of her, the pages soft and feathered with use. " _Ich Denke Dein_ ," she says. Her voice already sounds faint. Her heartbeat is pulsing in her ears and her blood is running hot under her skin. 

"Ah," Friedrich says, his fingers running over the hollows of her ankles, his kisses pressing against her thigh. "This one we know well. Yes?"

"Yes," she says, though her mouth is dry and it takes her a long moment to gather her wits enough to look at the page in front of her. The words swim; her heart is thumping in her chest and her palms are prickling. The idea that this much excitement will improve her German is, she thinks, ludicrous.

She pushes the book away with her fingertips.  _He has read this to you before_ , she reminds herself. _You know it, Jo, you have heard it spoken countless times…_

Closing her eyes against the words blurring on the page, and with as much concentration as she can muster, Jo casts desperately for memories of Friedrich's voice by candlelight; in dappled sunlight; in the blue light of snow against a window.

This poem is branded in her memories of him, and she does not consider it poor sportsmanship to cheat at her reading lessons when the end result is correct pronunciation.

 _"Iche Denke Dein,"_ she says, with only the slightest tremble in her voice, " _wenn mir der Sonne schimmer_ …"

Friedrich's fingers chase up the back of her calves to her knees, and she sucks in a breath and squirms a little. Her legs part and she feels another gentle kiss against the inside of her knee.

" _Vom Meere strahlt,"_ she adds hastily, arching her hips towards him.

"Patience, patience," Friedrich says. "Slowly, Jo dear. Poetry should be savoured." He kisses her knee again, first one and then the other, and she sinks back in her seat.

She longs to squeeze her thighs together; to feel pressure and friction where she wants it most. She breathes out a quiet sigh, trying to steady her breath, and pulls the book closer again to find her place.

" _Ich denke dein,_ " she says, heart hammering, " _wenn sich des Mondes…_ "

Friedrich's palm slides her stocking down to below her knee, his fingers chasing back up her thigh. Jo's head tips back as he breathes hotly against her other leg, lips and teeth worrying the ribbon serving as her garter, but waiting, waiting, her silence weighing heavy in the air…

"Blast," Jo sighs, leaning over the book, elbows on the desk.

He laughs, but waits.

" _Wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer,_ " she says, finding her place again. " _In Quellen malt_."

Friedrich's tongue slides over the top of her stocking to her bare skin, and any lingering guilt she feels over relying more on her memory, rather than the page, is thrown clear from her conscience. It is at least as fair, she thinks, as his own efforts to distract her.

" _Iche denke…_ " She trails off as his mouth closes, his kiss reduced to a mere press of his lips, and he makes a low noise in his throat.

She has gone wrong somewhere.

She casts a despairing eye over the page. " _Ich sehe dich_ ," she says, a hasty correction, and she quivers with breathless relief as he strokes his tongue over her skin.

" _Wenn auf dem fernen Wege_ ," she says, tipping her head back again and closing her eyes.

Friedrich's warm hands signal approval, his palms on the inside of her knees, pushing her legs gently apart, kisses nuzzling up her thighs beneath the open seams of her drawers, his beard whiskery-soft on her skin, tickling. She quivers and shivers under the sensation.

His hands slide beneath her knees to settle them upon his shoulders, the desk rattling as she squirms and arches herself towards him.

" _Der Staub sich hebt_ ," she says, " _In tiefer Nacht_ ," and Friedrich's fingers brush between her legs, lightly, lightly. " _Wenn auf dem schmalen Stege_."

She draws in a shuddering breath, her legs hooked over his shoulders, stockings rumpling down below her knees. She draws him closer, arching her back, and his tongue licks over the crease of her thigh.

 _"Der Wandrer bebt_ ," he murmurs, and she catches on and continues breathlessly, _"Ich höre dich, wenn dort mit dumpfem Rauschen… Die Welle steigt…"_

Friedrich's mouth is then wet and open between her legs, his tongue insistent. His fingers tap a little reminder against her knee and Jo pants a breath and fumbles for the book, but her limbs are trembling and its weight is suddenly too heavy.

She bites down on her lip and tries to remember what comes next, but it's only when Friedrich stops his attentions long enough to clear her head that she can utter the next line.

He continues then, easing only when she stumbles or mispronounces a word — when she corrects herself, voice husky with want and distraction, his mouth moves over her, sucking and licking at her with eager intent. Her knees bump against the desk; she reaches for him but he is beneath the desk and beneath her skirts and there is no chance of winding her fingers into his hair.

The poem is all broken fragments, though Friedrich appears to blame her slipping pronunciation and long pauses on his own efforts to distract her, rather than her hopeless memory for it.

 _"Die Sonne sinkt,"_ she says, racing for the end, wanting to finish the poem so she can gain her coveted reward. Her hands clench the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and she whimpers, rocking her hips forward. There is a long stretch of silence as she leans into Friedrich's tongue, trembling with the near inevitability of overwhelming satisfaction.

"Hm," Friedrich says, moving his mouth to kiss against her thigh, and Jo gives a soft cry of disappointment and dismay. He bites gently, and if she could get her hands into his hair she'd put him firmly back where she wants him, but there is no part of him she can reach.

She curses through gritted teeth and flips the page, searching once again for her place, which — once again — she has lost.

" _Die Sonne sinkt,_ " he reminds her. "The sun is setting."

"Yes," she gasps impatiently, "soon the stars will shine upon me… _bald leuchten mir die Sterne_ …"

Friedrich licks over her with delicious pressure, and Jo tips her head back and tilts her hips towards him. "Oh, more," she breathes. "Please more…"

He leans forward, pressing his open mouth, lips and tongue kissing her firm and hot and wet — Jo's knees bump against the desk, her heels push against the middle of Friedrich's back and she arches helplessly, crying out into the empty room, her body shivering and trembling under the intensity of his touch, her breath burning in her lungs, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She sinks back against the chair, trying to steady her breath. Heat rolls through her body, lazy and satisfied, and her legs slowly ease their tension, sitting loose and easy on Friedrich's shoulders, the worn cotton of his shirt soft and warm beneath her knees, her stockings loose and lost down around her ankles.

She hums a low noise of satisfaction, reaching her hands beneath the desk to find him; reaching for him so she can pull him to her and kiss him and coax him to meet with her again.

He makes a noise against her thigh, kissing her gently. "Again," he says, his voice low. "Turn to the next page and begin."

Jo blinks up at the ceiling in surprise. Her breath hitches. "Again?" she asks huskily. Her fingers, still prickling with shivering energy, fumble with the book's feathery-soft pages. " _Die schöne Nacht,_ " she reads, but then she stops at the soft touch of his tongue between her legs, her heart leaping with anticipation, her body coiled tight again.

"Come, come," her husband encourages softly, still settled between her legs, his mouth and his hands warm against her.

"I think my concentration is in pieces, Professor," Jo confesses, but he licks his tongue hard against her and she flinches, laughing and squirming against him. She reaches for the book.

"Just you wait," she says, an undercurrent of threat drawing through every word, "until I get my hands on you."

His laughter hums over her skin, his large hands draw her closer to him, lifting her against his mouth, and Jo's body sings in response.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Jo reads (fragments of) is _Ich Denke Dein_ by Johann Wolfgang Goethe, and the title is from an English translation of a poem by the same author, _She Cannot End (Sie Kann Nicht Enden)_.


End file.
